The Beginnings of Trust
by bleedsilverandgreen
Summary: "It's important to me, John!" rated T for drug use, self harm, and other mature content. Possible trigger warning.


In 221B Baker Street, London, there resides a detective and his blogger. The detective, a mister Sherlock Holmes, was sprawled across the couch, long legs dangling over the arm, fingers steepled together. Approximately every 15.6 seconds, he would call out "John, we need to talk," without even bothering to open his eyes. The detective's blogger (though he would never refer to himself as such), John Watson, laid in bed, eyes squeezed tightly shut with a pillow over his head. At each muffled shout of his name he bit back a groan. The calls were far enough apart that he began to drift off once again between each shout, only to be unhappily awoken at the sound of his name.

"John," Sherlock said, his voice deep and serious and coming right from outside his bedroom door. "Open up." John growled, rolling away from the door.

"You can make your own bloody tea," he muttered, trying vainly to fall back into sleep. He could hear Sherlock scoff through the heavy wood of the door.

"I don't need tea," he said, and John could hear the frown in his voice. "I need a cigarette, but that's irrelevant." John shoved his face deeper into the pillow.

"I'm not getting up," he said. "I've got a bloody horrible hangover thanks to you." Sherlock chuckled once humorlessly, and John sighed. "It's not funny," he mumbled, voice muffled by the pillow. The night before, Sherlock had taken him out for "a drink" after catching the culprit of a string of very nasty murders. One drink became two, which somehow turned into a drinking game, and the next thing John remembered staggering in and out of a taxi and laughing weakly while trying to support each other as Sherlock picked the lock to 221B (he'd forgotten where he'd left the keys about a week before hand and neither Sherlock nor John had bothered to look for them).

John had a funny feeling it might have been planned to get him drunk, because he couldn't remember Sherlock being quite as unbalanced as he was—though Sherlock did seem to be a damn good actor. First off, Sherlock never took him out for a drink, and secondly... Well, John was positive he hadn't figured _that_ out yet. A weight settled on John's bed, startling him out of his thoughts.

"Wha-?" he began, then noticed the open door and Sherlock leaning over him. "You picked the lock," he grumbled, rolling onto his back to glare at Sherlock. Some of the taller man's curled fringe had fallen into his face and John resisted the strange urge to push it back. Sherlock seemed unconcerned by the hair, studying John's face intently. John pushed himself up on his elbows so the two men were facing each other, meeting Sherlock's searching gaze. Sherlock's eyes were strangely bright, whether from excitement or something else, John wasn't sure. It seemed almost as though there was a hint of concern in them, but John couldn't be sure.

"What do you want?" John asked, frantically searching his scattered memory for any clues as to why his brilliant-yet-clueless roommate was perching on his bed.

"I made a brilliant discovery last night," said Sherlock. His eyes were narrowed down at John in a way that made his heart pound furiously against his ribcage. Whatever this discovery was, it couldn't be good. Sherlock lowered his head down to John's so that for a split second he wondered if he was going to kiss him. "I know your secret," he whispered, and John's stomach dropped.

"What do you mean, Sherlock? You're not talking any sense." John straightened up, forcing Sherlock to pull away from him. He had a sick feeling in his stomach that he knew what Sherlock meant. Sherlock rolled his eyes, yanking back the rumpled covers on John's bed and pushing up his pant leg to the top of his thigh.

"Sherlock!" John cried, trying desperately to pull his pants back down, but the other man grabbed his wrists in a steel grip.

"Explain, John," he growled, teeth pressed tightly together. John's eyes strayed down to his thigh, where he knew he would see the latticework of cuts and scars marring his skin. What he wasn't expecting was the three deep new cuts that were bleeding freely around the clots and staining the bedclothes. He swallowed down his startled cry, focusing instead on the depth and width of the wound, before breathing out a shocked "oh." They would need stitches, of that John was sure. "You left a fucking _blood trail, _John." Sherlock growled, squeezing his wrists until John cried out in pain. "I want you to tell me why." John shook his head.

"It's not important."

"_IT'S IMPORTANT TO ME!_" Sherlock shouted, gripping John's wrists even tighter. He took in a breath, seeming to relax some. "It's important to me, John." John's eyes were wide, staring at Sherlock in shock. John opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He swallowed, fighting back the tears that were burning his eyes. He focused on the cuts, estimating how many stitches he would need. Maybe if he stayed silent, Sherlock would give up. But he knew Sherlock better than that, and he knew he wouldn't leave until he got some kind of answer. John took a breath, and then another.

"Because it makes me feel alive," he said. Sherlock let go of his wrists, pulling away. John didn't want to look up, refusing to see the pain or pity on the taller man's face, but Sherlock cupped his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"No," Sherlock whispered. John blinked. No what? "You shouldn't... you can't do this, John." John swallowed, trying to look away but unable to break Sherlock's grasp.

"It's the only thing that makes me hate myself a little less," he whispered, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock gasped quietly, and then his arms were around John, pulling him into his chest. It was awkward and slightly uncomfortable, but regardless John relaxed in his arms. The two stayed like that for a while, neither saying anything as they watched the sun rise through John's bedroom window. John felt something soft brush his hair, and then felt a peculiar warm wetness speckle his cheek. He tilted his head up, Sherlock was crying silently, staring out the window at the sun.

"Sherlock," John whispered. Sherlock didn't respond, only held him a little bit closer and a little bit tighter. John closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."


End file.
